Chapter 6 The Coffee Tray and the Slippery Trap
SYLVIE'S POV
The rich aroma of butter and freshly brewed black coffee had chased away the lingering chill in the inn's kitchen since sunrise.
This morning, my resolve was as solid as the batch of bread I’d just pulled from the oven. The humiliating spectacle from last night—my shrill scream, the shattered teacup, and those ill-mannered spirits running their mouths—could not happen again.
I tied the strings of my brown apron tight around my waist, smoothed down the collar of my cotton dress, and checked my reflection in the kitchen glass.
The Thistlewood Inn was a respectable family legacy, not some dilapidated haunted house to be laughed at.
And I, Sylvie Sterling, was going to prove to our one and only guest that this place was worth every copper.
Golden, crispy slices of buttered toast were neatly arranged on a white porcelain plate. Beside them, two earthenware mugs filled with Grandma’s secret coffee blend sent up aromatic curls of steam laced with mouthwatering cinnamon.
"Perfect," I whispered with satisfaction, lifting the polished wooden tray with both hands.
A brand-new day, a fresh start, and five-star service.
With graceful steps and my chin held high, I pushed through the swinging kitchen door into the main dining room. Morning light spilled softly through the stained-glass windows, painting the floorboards in warm, vibrant patterns.
Barely three steps in, my feet froze in their tracks.
Over in the corner by the large bay window, bathed in golden sunlight, Lucian Mercer sat lounging in a carved wooden armchair. The sight completely shattered every ounce of composure I’d spent all morning cobbling together.
He wasn't wearing the intimidating, soaking-wet black cloak from last night. Instead, he wore a casual gray cotton shirt with the top two buttons undone, revealing a strong neckline and the sharp contours of his collarbones.
His sleeves were rolled up neatly to his elbows, showing off lean, corded forearms and faint traces of veins. His messy black hair caught the morning glow, and his sharp jawline looked sculpted by the sunrise itself.
I swallowed hard behind the wooden tray. This man had no right being this devastatingly handsome in the morning. My heart gave an unruly thump, pumping heat that rushed straight to my cheeks.
Squeezing my eyes shut for a second, I took a deep breath to steady my pulse.
Focus, Sylvie. He’s just a paying customer, I sternly told myself.
Forcing a smile, I plastered on the sweetest, most professional hospitality grin I could muster. I strode steadily toward his table, careful not to let the coffee cups rattle against the tray from my nervous hands.
Any hope for a peaceful morning evaporated when my peripheral vision caught a bizarre movement near the floor. Barely six feet from Lucian's table, a translucent figure hovered low, mere inches above the wood.
Barnaby.
The old ghost grinned wickedly at me, mischievous wrinkles crinkling across his spectral face.
"Time for real action, Poet!" he mouthed silently with glee.
Before I could open my mouth to protest, that damned old man puckered his translucent lips toward the floorboards.
Whoosh!
He blew a dense cloud of bluish ectoplasm right onto the floor where I was about to step. In the blink of an eye, the dry wood was coated in a slick, magical sheen.
It turned the floor into a trap as treacherous as black ice!
"Barnaby, sto—!"
My warning came a second too late.
The toe of my leather boot hit the slick mist. Any traction under my soles vanished completely. Both feet whipped forward at terrifying speed, throwing all my weight backward.
Gravity yanked me down mercilessly.
"Aaaah!" I shrieked in sheer panic as my balance disintegrated.
The wooden tray flew from my grip, hurtling into the air along with two mugs of hot coffee and the plate of buttered toast. Scalding coffee sloshed from the mugs, suspended in midair and poised to splash straight down onto my face as I fell backward.
Dreading the bone-crushing impact of the floor and the sting of boiling liquid, I squeezed my eyes shut.
I braced for impact.
Whoosh!
A dense gust of cold wind sliced through the air around me. The pain I braced for never came. Instead of slamming against hardwood, I hung suspended for a fraction of a second before a pair of strong arms caught my waist with impossible speed.
The grip was firm, steady, and rock-solid.
In the exact same breath, the hiss of dark magic surged above my head. Tendrils of shadowy mist rolled gracefully through the air, catching the wooden tray, the coffee mugs, and the plate of toast before any of them could hit the ground. Even the scalding drops of coffee were frozen inside a bubble of dark energy—not a single droplet touched my skin.
Before my brain could even process that miracle of necromancy, those powerful arms hauled me forward. I slid smoothly through the air, pulled right into a firm, solid embrace.
Thud.
I landed squarely on a pair of broad, muscular thighs. The breath was knocked clean out of my lungs as the reality hit: I had just been pulled straight into Lucian Mercer’s lap.
My back was pressed flush against his broad chest, and that intoxicating scent of pine and cool spice completely enveloped my senses.
One of his thick arms remained wrapped protectively around my waist, keeping me from sliding off. His warm breath brushed softly against my ear and cheek, freezing me in utter shock.
Thump, thump, thump!
My heart hammered so frantically against my ribs that I was certain he could feel it vibrating right through our clothes. Every blood vessel in my face felt like it burst at once, setting my cheeks on fire.
The breakfast tray, guided by his dark magic, floated down and settled with a soft clink onto the table beside us.
Yet Lucian made no move to loosen his hold on my waist. He dipped his head slightly, closing the distance between our faces until I could see my own panicked reflection in his dark, piercing eyes.
The corner of his thin lips curved into a devastating, dangerous smirk. Holding my gaze captive, Lucian leaned in and whispered in a low, husky drawl right against my lips:
"Is sitting in my lap included in the breakfast service, Miss Sterling?"
